I feel if I don't write this correctly,
I'm never going to be able to approach the task I've set out for
myself with even the prayer of remotely completing it. The longer I
linger on a fundamental question about myself, the more it sinks in
the reality of the implications and hindrances.
I have what I think is a healthy fear of myself. I know my potential. I've proven things to myself time and time again. I know how I can arrive to just about any justification. I know how to change moods and mindsets. I know how to extract money whether I need to lean on illegal or immoral ways. I know how to earnestly practice. I know how to read all day. I know how to binge watch. I know how to meal prep. It feels like just yesterday I decided to “work all the time” in service to completing my house, and while I know I've watched a shit ton of media and made progress, from July until now March, it might as well be one condensed blur I regard as a kind of “sacrifice” of my 29th year. The problem is that I've stated a number of times that I'm no martyr.
A good portion of my life looks the way it does because I've always been embedded in a structure. Every inch of your formative years requires waking up and going to school. Every assignment needs to be completed, if only poorly. If I wasn't forced to march in band, I wouldn't have any good or bad memories of it or an imposed perspective that's permeated my decisions and associations indefinitely. In a flash, your structure gets erased if you aren't keen to search and sacrifice to get plugged into another one. I keep thinking I'll get to “start my life” after a dollar amount or perfectly balanced budget. I look back on old messages about visiting friends or making plans that fell by the wayside because something “more vital” felt pressing.
Ultimately, my efforts are futile. Chris Rock's words come to mind in a piece of advice he tries to beat into his children's minds. Once you step outside the front door, not one single person gives a shit about you, and really, sometimes that's true about the people inside the house too. I find this one of those ideas I accept intellectually, but my body rejects in a fit of anxiety. My school structure reinforced ideas of what constituted good behavior and achievement worthy of reward. I got paid to read. I got the A so I could continue to keep partying. It “mattered.” People did give a shit about me, at least enough to punish me if I didn't do well enough.
But what is the punishment if you're “smart enough” to pay the bills and stay alive? What's the self-imposed selection pressure to become every inch of who you are? I try to be conscious of when I'm doing things out of desperation verses actively picking to engage with them. I do this so I don't end up picking up bad habits like lazily practicing an instrument and working against myself. I do this because I think we're sort of defaulted to a position of always trying to dig ourselves out of holes and are perfectly unaware of what making a choice really constitutes. I read through blogs dozens of times to figure out what kind of illusion I've weaved for myself to keep me away from my vaguely imagined “ideal.”
In my life, there are exceedingly weak standing repercussions if I don't do things. I've now gone so far as to orient my life in a way white trash or a junkie could support. If you can pay your bills via plasma donation, what's stopping you? It takes hiccups of effort to pay $100 here or there, resolve yourself to sleeping in your car, or work part time at a mind-numbing job to keep just barely above water. No one cares if I can play an instrument or 10. No one cares if I lose 30 pounds. I'm not headed to prison if I can't remember the brunt of a philosopher's argument or name of a character I've seen in 100 episodes. Reading 9 books one week and 200 comics isn't getting me an award from a librarian. Every single thing I do with my day is beyond meaningless to everyone but me, and I hate that idea so much I allow myself leeway to forgo all the meaning I could grant myself.
I think I've arrived here for a number of reasons that I don't feel right describing as “faults” on anyone's behalf. Whatever I am, I'm still an ape, and apes work best with a social component. Byron's sister came to town and we went out like the old days. It felt like putting on a perfect fitting jacket making jokes and pouring drinks and shivering for each trek between bars. Mild past grievances go up in joyous tipsy smoke. It simply feels great to be on the same page, regardless of what you're reading together. Now look at the other 364 days of my year, and I'm back to wondering what whim will swing me where.
I, of course, still have much to prove. I've concocted a gigantic narrative about myself and what I'm capable of. I reference my track record often. I still get indignant at the hint of condescension and lazy retorts. No matter how many “lazy” or “depressed” days I have to put away, I still haven't come close to abandoning a conception of myself at a fundamental level. But it remains hard to dream. It sucks to be humbled daily about all of the shit you can't control. It's sad and tired to report to yourself “progress” that always comes with a catch. I'm not motivated to buy more things, I don't want more time to myself, and I reject out of hand undue praise or persistent self-destructive indulgence. I'm terrified of the idea of “peaking too early” as if there's any reason to believe you can't always be progressing along some metric.
I think, without meaning to, I started to rely too heavily on “hope” despite my persistent condemnation of it. I should present an offering to the underlying ironic pulse of existence. I hope someone joins me on the land or wants to create something together. I hope I get a chance to give back and take care of in equal or greater measure to what I've been given before I die of a coronary from sitting too long or catch a catastrophic accident. I want to be right, desperately, so I make appeals in the dark to the faceless and voiceless amalgam of ghosts from my past who've helped shape me thus far. I started taking cues from likes and upvotes and nit-picking the vitriol at the heart of earnest imbecile commentators. I let one of my hands fill up with the shit of stress from over-working, under-organizing, and letting things I care about slowly die via mismanaged sacrifice.
I want to always be the guy who can start a coffee business in 3-6 months. I want to be the one who can reconcile everything with the right amount of alcohol, jokes, and mixed potentially difficult company. I want to watch way too much TV. I want to boast about things about myself that age thinks it won't have to rip from my cold dead hands. I want to know more details about shit you don't care about and things you're only pretending to care about. I want to create things you'd never imagine. And I want to do that because that's who I am, not because it means anything to you. I'm a complete and unrelenting asshole, and the nicest guy who's earnestly suffered in service to the people he's cared about. I'm fat and lazy as shit, and work more than people in countries who are killing themselves over the same amount of hours. I can set and meet any goal for myself, and write up a ten page compelling argument describing the relief and craving for death.
I've been living in one long hangover. I've poisoned myself with a grandiose dream, while perfectly achievable, by no means so in the short term barring an extremely improbable turn. The day after dosing I'm clamoring to quell the anxiety and guilt of my temporary embarrassment for my circumstances. But I'm not embarrassed. I'm disorganized. I'm alone. I'm incredibly angry. It feels like I already had what I wanted, and life construed itself to tear it apart. I had an amazing friend group that one by one gave up on either me or each other. I had the energy and time to bring people together. I had the resources to bring my ideas to fruition practically this instant. I had a place. I had help. I had a sense that I actually meant something worthwhile and important.
That's where the energy comes from. That's where the “reason” works its way into a positive feeling feedback loop. I don't mean for this to sound like I don't appreciate or recognize the people who have been nothing but supportive either. I never care to pit my despair against someone else's. But as the structure around me degraded, so did I. I retreated to a kind of street hustle. I looked for things to blame as I was tired of it always being my fault. I'm still tired of that. As long as it remains true, I need to reconfigure what I'm to blame myself for. I'm sorry I flirted with accepting your standards. I'm sorry I asked you for a reason, for you to want me to come around. I'm sorry that no matter what example I set I'm never going to think it's good enough. I'm sorry I throw my life at you like you give a shit. I'm sorry I don't care how you feel. I'm sorry I hang on to every fucking ridiculous thing I feel you've done to me. I'm sorry I'll never trust you. I'm sorry to be alive and bother trying too hard. I'm sorry for apologizing because I don't have better words for “I'm not fucking sorry and I don't give a fuck.”
I clench my jaw. I am wired tight. I get food handed to me 30 times a day, and I still jump when they come up to the window. I suspect that only way I'm ever going to “normalize” is by getting back into studies, and I still have only managed to think a severe acid trip paired with an anxiety inducing incident I'm forced to overcome might rewire my brain enough to bother trying again. I need to stop pretending like I even have a concept of “vacation” or want to spend money hanging out before a higher level of comfort has been achieved. I need to plug myself into a machine of my own making, reintroduce the butterflies that kept me going to pointless class, pointless jobs, and pointless social interactions. I've extracted all the value I could handle from that system and need to believe the dividends from what I borrow and improve on will pay out in even higher measure.
What does it look like if every single day I do a little bit in service to every part of me? I know what I'm capable of, but what's the catastrophic upper limit? What if I make a blood-thirsty show of my sacrifices of “hope” and “luck?” I can work, and manipulate, and learn, and play, and create all at once every day. I can do it “alone.” I can try and fail studies and go back to work the same day. I can have depressed indulgent days and still make my 30K a year and budget like I'm making 100K. I can keep in mind every person I've met who's done it or is doing it as well or better than me who I want to be just like, and I can watch myself transform just as I have into whatever you want to call me right now. I know where I want to go, and I know the very small number of things I can control in order to get there. I need to retain that control. I need to crave my future and not make desperate swipes at it while know-nothing hollow dogs bark in my ears. I need it to be the kind of difficult I know I'm the only one suited to overcome.
So let's kick it off. All at once, all the time, every day.
I have what I think is a healthy fear of myself. I know my potential. I've proven things to myself time and time again. I know how I can arrive to just about any justification. I know how to change moods and mindsets. I know how to extract money whether I need to lean on illegal or immoral ways. I know how to earnestly practice. I know how to read all day. I know how to binge watch. I know how to meal prep. It feels like just yesterday I decided to “work all the time” in service to completing my house, and while I know I've watched a shit ton of media and made progress, from July until now March, it might as well be one condensed blur I regard as a kind of “sacrifice” of my 29th year. The problem is that I've stated a number of times that I'm no martyr.
A good portion of my life looks the way it does because I've always been embedded in a structure. Every inch of your formative years requires waking up and going to school. Every assignment needs to be completed, if only poorly. If I wasn't forced to march in band, I wouldn't have any good or bad memories of it or an imposed perspective that's permeated my decisions and associations indefinitely. In a flash, your structure gets erased if you aren't keen to search and sacrifice to get plugged into another one. I keep thinking I'll get to “start my life” after a dollar amount or perfectly balanced budget. I look back on old messages about visiting friends or making plans that fell by the wayside because something “more vital” felt pressing.
Ultimately, my efforts are futile. Chris Rock's words come to mind in a piece of advice he tries to beat into his children's minds. Once you step outside the front door, not one single person gives a shit about you, and really, sometimes that's true about the people inside the house too. I find this one of those ideas I accept intellectually, but my body rejects in a fit of anxiety. My school structure reinforced ideas of what constituted good behavior and achievement worthy of reward. I got paid to read. I got the A so I could continue to keep partying. It “mattered.” People did give a shit about me, at least enough to punish me if I didn't do well enough.
But what is the punishment if you're “smart enough” to pay the bills and stay alive? What's the self-imposed selection pressure to become every inch of who you are? I try to be conscious of when I'm doing things out of desperation verses actively picking to engage with them. I do this so I don't end up picking up bad habits like lazily practicing an instrument and working against myself. I do this because I think we're sort of defaulted to a position of always trying to dig ourselves out of holes and are perfectly unaware of what making a choice really constitutes. I read through blogs dozens of times to figure out what kind of illusion I've weaved for myself to keep me away from my vaguely imagined “ideal.”
In my life, there are exceedingly weak standing repercussions if I don't do things. I've now gone so far as to orient my life in a way white trash or a junkie could support. If you can pay your bills via plasma donation, what's stopping you? It takes hiccups of effort to pay $100 here or there, resolve yourself to sleeping in your car, or work part time at a mind-numbing job to keep just barely above water. No one cares if I can play an instrument or 10. No one cares if I lose 30 pounds. I'm not headed to prison if I can't remember the brunt of a philosopher's argument or name of a character I've seen in 100 episodes. Reading 9 books one week and 200 comics isn't getting me an award from a librarian. Every single thing I do with my day is beyond meaningless to everyone but me, and I hate that idea so much I allow myself leeway to forgo all the meaning I could grant myself.
I think I've arrived here for a number of reasons that I don't feel right describing as “faults” on anyone's behalf. Whatever I am, I'm still an ape, and apes work best with a social component. Byron's sister came to town and we went out like the old days. It felt like putting on a perfect fitting jacket making jokes and pouring drinks and shivering for each trek between bars. Mild past grievances go up in joyous tipsy smoke. It simply feels great to be on the same page, regardless of what you're reading together. Now look at the other 364 days of my year, and I'm back to wondering what whim will swing me where.
I, of course, still have much to prove. I've concocted a gigantic narrative about myself and what I'm capable of. I reference my track record often. I still get indignant at the hint of condescension and lazy retorts. No matter how many “lazy” or “depressed” days I have to put away, I still haven't come close to abandoning a conception of myself at a fundamental level. But it remains hard to dream. It sucks to be humbled daily about all of the shit you can't control. It's sad and tired to report to yourself “progress” that always comes with a catch. I'm not motivated to buy more things, I don't want more time to myself, and I reject out of hand undue praise or persistent self-destructive indulgence. I'm terrified of the idea of “peaking too early” as if there's any reason to believe you can't always be progressing along some metric.
I think, without meaning to, I started to rely too heavily on “hope” despite my persistent condemnation of it. I should present an offering to the underlying ironic pulse of existence. I hope someone joins me on the land or wants to create something together. I hope I get a chance to give back and take care of in equal or greater measure to what I've been given before I die of a coronary from sitting too long or catch a catastrophic accident. I want to be right, desperately, so I make appeals in the dark to the faceless and voiceless amalgam of ghosts from my past who've helped shape me thus far. I started taking cues from likes and upvotes and nit-picking the vitriol at the heart of earnest imbecile commentators. I let one of my hands fill up with the shit of stress from over-working, under-organizing, and letting things I care about slowly die via mismanaged sacrifice.
I want to always be the guy who can start a coffee business in 3-6 months. I want to be the one who can reconcile everything with the right amount of alcohol, jokes, and mixed potentially difficult company. I want to watch way too much TV. I want to boast about things about myself that age thinks it won't have to rip from my cold dead hands. I want to know more details about shit you don't care about and things you're only pretending to care about. I want to create things you'd never imagine. And I want to do that because that's who I am, not because it means anything to you. I'm a complete and unrelenting asshole, and the nicest guy who's earnestly suffered in service to the people he's cared about. I'm fat and lazy as shit, and work more than people in countries who are killing themselves over the same amount of hours. I can set and meet any goal for myself, and write up a ten page compelling argument describing the relief and craving for death.
I've been living in one long hangover. I've poisoned myself with a grandiose dream, while perfectly achievable, by no means so in the short term barring an extremely improbable turn. The day after dosing I'm clamoring to quell the anxiety and guilt of my temporary embarrassment for my circumstances. But I'm not embarrassed. I'm disorganized. I'm alone. I'm incredibly angry. It feels like I already had what I wanted, and life construed itself to tear it apart. I had an amazing friend group that one by one gave up on either me or each other. I had the energy and time to bring people together. I had the resources to bring my ideas to fruition practically this instant. I had a place. I had help. I had a sense that I actually meant something worthwhile and important.
That's where the energy comes from. That's where the “reason” works its way into a positive feeling feedback loop. I don't mean for this to sound like I don't appreciate or recognize the people who have been nothing but supportive either. I never care to pit my despair against someone else's. But as the structure around me degraded, so did I. I retreated to a kind of street hustle. I looked for things to blame as I was tired of it always being my fault. I'm still tired of that. As long as it remains true, I need to reconfigure what I'm to blame myself for. I'm sorry I flirted with accepting your standards. I'm sorry I asked you for a reason, for you to want me to come around. I'm sorry that no matter what example I set I'm never going to think it's good enough. I'm sorry I throw my life at you like you give a shit. I'm sorry I don't care how you feel. I'm sorry I hang on to every fucking ridiculous thing I feel you've done to me. I'm sorry I'll never trust you. I'm sorry to be alive and bother trying too hard. I'm sorry for apologizing because I don't have better words for “I'm not fucking sorry and I don't give a fuck.”
I clench my jaw. I am wired tight. I get food handed to me 30 times a day, and I still jump when they come up to the window. I suspect that only way I'm ever going to “normalize” is by getting back into studies, and I still have only managed to think a severe acid trip paired with an anxiety inducing incident I'm forced to overcome might rewire my brain enough to bother trying again. I need to stop pretending like I even have a concept of “vacation” or want to spend money hanging out before a higher level of comfort has been achieved. I need to plug myself into a machine of my own making, reintroduce the butterflies that kept me going to pointless class, pointless jobs, and pointless social interactions. I've extracted all the value I could handle from that system and need to believe the dividends from what I borrow and improve on will pay out in even higher measure.
What does it look like if every single day I do a little bit in service to every part of me? I know what I'm capable of, but what's the catastrophic upper limit? What if I make a blood-thirsty show of my sacrifices of “hope” and “luck?” I can work, and manipulate, and learn, and play, and create all at once every day. I can do it “alone.” I can try and fail studies and go back to work the same day. I can have depressed indulgent days and still make my 30K a year and budget like I'm making 100K. I can keep in mind every person I've met who's done it or is doing it as well or better than me who I want to be just like, and I can watch myself transform just as I have into whatever you want to call me right now. I know where I want to go, and I know the very small number of things I can control in order to get there. I need to retain that control. I need to crave my future and not make desperate swipes at it while know-nothing hollow dogs bark in my ears. I need it to be the kind of difficult I know I'm the only one suited to overcome.
So let's kick it off. All at once, all the time, every day.
